As he watched the stream of his own breath in the cold air, he was glad of the warmth provided by his alb and the long red chasuble that reached almost to his feet. At that moment, a loud wail emanated from the only baby in the building and his attention was caught by the sight of its mother bending over it, trying to coax it to be quiet by donning a monkey glove puppet and playing with it. Unfortunately, the woman’s ploy failed, and for the next few minutes, until it was finally bundled out of the building, the air was filled by the baby’s high-pitched, frightened cries. Smiling broadly at the departing woman, determined to signal to her that he was not upset by the noise, he advanced towards the line of people waiting to be given Communion. At the head of the queue, tongue extended in readiness, stood Lady Lindsay, the old guard made flesh. She was as well-dressed as ever, with a silk Hermès scarf partially covering her blue-grey helmet of permed hair. Tanned and broken-veined, she looked every inch the countrywoman with her muscled calves and padded waistcoat, dog hairs trapped in the seams.
